By Monique Jones
By Ciara LaVelle
By Jeff Weinberger
By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
After ingesting the weird brew served up at the Bettcher Gallery, one is left wondering whether Toc Fetch and Tricia Cline are savant fugitives from Bellvue's Peter Pan ward or just plain old-fangled eccentrics living off the fat of imagination in their Woodstock Xanadu.
"Exiles in Lower Utopia"narrates the story of River Scout Finnagain, PapaWolf, Pope Joey, Holybean, and a schizy cast of others that unfolds a tale of an inward pilgrimage or what the artists refer to as "the heroic journey to self."
Sounding as though they just manage to stay a few steps ahead of being snared by imaginary butterfly net-wielding orderlies (he calls her "Tree"; she refers to him as an animal in human clothing), the self-described artistic unit of Fetch and Cline confesses an obsession with "articulating consciousness, in images, as the subtext of the real."
Unfettered by contemporary notions of wholeness, their characters serve as metaphors and allegories for the fragmented interior life of the subconscious as reflected in the language of dreams, feelings, and inspiration. The deeply complex world the enlightened Birkenstock bohos conjure is striking and tends to hook the viewer like a walleye on a spin lure.
Fetch, who may have taken the gold in the Timothy Leary Triathlon and chooses to communicate in metaphysical haiku, is a cult comic book artist whose large pencil-on-paper panels are hallucinatory examples of excruciatingly detailed photo realism. The drawings in this show come from his eighth book about Lower Utopia, a place he calls the borderlands of the soul, where his heroine, River Scout Finnagain, travels through florid grottoes and fertile crevices of personal mythology to discover her gods and experience self-awakening.
In one vertical drawing with three panels, V6.2 Page 2. River Talks to Her Self, PapaWolf tells River: "You don't love us anymore" as they walk in a wooded clearing. Off to the side, a vacant-eyed preadolescent boy, Pope Joey a trickster figure watches as a bishop's miter shaped from the wolf's face hovers inches above his head. Below, River shuffles along sorrowfully in front of a suburban home with a white picket fence. Frowning, she tells the beast: "Don't be silly." The bottom panel features a closeup of PapaWolf's wizened eyes.
Another bath-towel-size work, V6.3 Page 24. River Talks to the Dead, depicts the heroine squatting over what appears to be a wolf-zebra hybrid in a rich copse of trees. Sunlight cuts through the dense canopy of leaves and branches, illuminating the quixotic scene.
These drawings and others in the show are masterfully executed and exude an ethereal quality that transports the viewer into the wacky machinations of what Fetch calls his Grand Circus Psyche.
Perhaps sipping from the same medicine jug, Cline creates exquisitely detailed porcelain sculptures depicting relationships between humans and animals or humans personified as animals. Her work tills the murky subconscious loam in which Fetch squishes his toes, and symbiotically serves to enhance the illusion that one might well encounter the sacred denizens of Lower Utopia in these artists' mysterious neck of the woods.
PapaWolf Sings to the Acolytes, a marvelous pedestal-scale arrangement, depicts five kneeling young women semicircled before a prone wolf to whom they reverently bow their heads. The inscrutable piece is reminiscent of ancient Chinese funerary statuary and breathtaking in beauty.
Another subtle work, Pope Tricksie Brings the Elephant, features a richly clad androgynous figure sporting what might be a dunce cap or a papal headpiece and carrying an elephant across its back like a rucksack. The figure stands erect with its left hand stretched outward, the index and middle fingers extended as if in the process of genuflecting or offering a benediction. A tiny horse stands ankle high near Pope Tricksie's left leg, its front right and left hind legs broken and splinted with wood. Nearby, a night crawler squirms into its doodle hole.
Inspecting the hefty prices that the pair's quirky work is commanding, I was struck by the thought that the harebrained shtick may be enterprising in nature but, alas, one realizes it must cost mad cheddar to feather a nest in otherworldly seclusion away from the evils of mind-numbing civilization.
At Alonso Art, "Nowhere," featuring photographic work by four contemporary Cuban artists, focuses on how exiles deal with global turmoil, issues of displacement, and social or political tensions in their adopted regions, eschewing commentary on Cuba's political climate.
Juan Pablo Ballester, who resides in Barcelona, weighs in with five stunning cibachrome prints from his series "Enlloc," the Catalonian word for nowhere. In the first public showing of his work in Miami, Ballester addresses stirrings of Catalonian nationalism and general conflicts of immigration in compelling theatrical fashion.
The artist auditioned porn stars to play characters in staged scenes and hired photographers to capture his provocative imagery as a critical analysis of the stark realities immigrants confront in the process of negotiating established power structures.
In a large untitled photograph, a flaxen-haired officer wearing the powder blue shirt of the Mosos de Esquadra, Barcelona's police force, is mounted atop a white steed with a bouquet of wild flowers tucked in his saddlebag. Another photo depicts the same fellow lying bare-breasted on his back in an ominous forest setting, a friendship bracelet knotted around his left wrist. The flowers are strewn nearby, and a Rottweiler lolls at his feet. An exotic, olive-skinned gypsy girl, clad in a black bra and pink pants, sits astride the cop's pelvis and is in the process of violently attacking him. Captured in the instant of plunging a knife into the startled policeman's chest, the woman evokes a sense of the recent immigrant uprising in Paris where disaffected Arabs stunned the city in a fiery outrage.